


Purgatory

by whorerormovie



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Demon Dimitri, Demons and Hunters AU, Hunter Claude, M/M, dimiclaude exchange, dimiclaude gift exchange, hope this doesn’t awaken a bloodborne au within me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27815968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whorerormovie/pseuds/whorerormovie
Summary: Claude had lost his love at the hands of demons. Filled grief and a need for vengeance, he stalks the earth hunting demons, until one day, he comes across a demon he could not kill. Many nights he spent with this demon, observing its behavior, learning from it, unknowingly leading himself closer to the truth surrounding his love's death.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 36
Kudos: 49





	Purgatory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silverdrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverdrift/gifts).



> This is my contribution to the dimiclaude exchange for silverdrift [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverdrift) || [twitter](https://twitter.com/SilverdriftXIII). I tried my very best to incorporate your desired elements for one of the prompts and my only hope is the you enjoy the end result. This work is heavily influenced by Raimy's eldritch Dimitri fanart (thanks Raimy!) which can be found [here](https://twitter.com/tarasnabad/status/1272719618407366664), [here](https://twitter.com/tarasnabad/status/1272357052371910656) and [here](https://twitter.com/tarasnabad/status/1272027916495355905).
> 
> It was so fun writing this, I've actually wanted to write this for a while and I'm very appreciative to hella, ars and kit, you've all helped me along the way, couldn't have done it without your input.
> 
> For context, this fic is split up into nine segments, a segment for each level of hell as depicted in Dante's Inferno.
> 
> hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/whorerormovie)

**LIMBO**

Winter’s caress is death itself. The white of snow is pure like the doves that fly onwards into heaven, and whatever lies beneath the frozen pelt succumbs to an unpoetic death. He once had a love who succumbed to such fate, after his confession, the demons who roamed this realm feasted upon the doting heart of his man, once so full of love and life, and now nothing remains of it, too deep in the bowels of demons long forgotten. 

Claude hunts these demons now, it is his vengeance, his own divine justice for ruining his world. 

At present he hunts one of these fiends with bow on hand. His footsteps are silenced by the padding of snow. He follows in its very footprints, filling the depths with the weight of himself. Not too close and surely not too distant, he remains covered by the trees of the forest. Black under the guise of night, the branches stygian and drab, stretching outwards like featherless wings. Skeletal and frail, under the weight of snow the branches will bend and break, and descend upon the earth like fallen angels. 

When it happens, when a branch inevitably collapses under the strain of pallid flakes, it severs from the trunk. The sound of crackling is enough to garner the demon’s attention. It stops in its tracks to further access the surroundings. From this distance, Claude cannot see its face, cannot even identify the shape of its body when a cloak overlines its demonic frame; however, what he can denote are the numerous weapons segmented on its back, each one penetrating through thick layers of fur to get to its body. Claude counts nine in total. Javelins, daggers and swords, all it’s missing is an arrow to finally purge the demon from these lands. 

It draws out a breath, bringing about the frost of winter. Crystallizations in the form of mist lead out of the mouth. As it breathes Claude can hear the growl ascending from the diaphragm. It rumbles low in warning, the sound airborne as it regurgitates enough to reach the hunter’s ears. 

Claude holds his breath as he eases his back into the bark of the wood. He has become one with the silence, foregoing all sense of movement to achieve perfect soundlessness. It is only at the sound of shuffling feet that the air in his lungs leaves him. Undergoing a similar transition of visibility, just as the demon’s breath had. Who would have thought that a creature from hell could experience coldness, though the more he entertains the thought the more it makes sense. Demons excel at violence, and the heat of hell only makes them all the more powerful. It is only with snow that the brazen thermia’s influence dwindles, weakening the beasts. This is why snow hails from the skies, it is god’s deterrent against their wicked influence over the living. 

Claude looks from behind the tree and sees that the demon has gone on the move again. For a demon it behaves quite unusually. Countless have been the times where he’s encountered a creature of hell and it lashes out against any sound, this one is different, this one avoids it. As if thinking, much like a human would. It also breathes and moves much like a human would, and if he were to look at its body, he would come to find that it too has appendages, much like a human’s. 

No matter the resemblance, it will die like a beast, he will send it back to eternal damnation whence it came.

Claude steps into the clearing while the demon’s back is turned and steadies his shot. He aims with his right eye, and readies the bow with his left arm. The fingers of his right hand work alongside the fletch, lining it to the drawstring and pulling both back into a taut line. The hunter calms his breathing, an exaggerated exhale can change the direction of the shot. Only patience is required. If his heart is true then his aim will not miss. All he must do is not fall into the temptation of prematurity. A quick shot tends to be less accurate, and for a demon such as this, whose height is proximal to seven feet, precision is a must.

Time slows with the falling of snowflakes. Each dazzle of white a distraction, an impediment towards his target. He must act now before the climate turns this opportunity against him. 

The chill has already begun to take its effect. His arrow is more weighted due to the falling snow, which no doubt will reduce its speed. Claude can already feel the wetting of the drawstring. Solid turns liquid by the heat of his hand. The feathers of the fletch feel moist around his fingers, and already, they begin to slip, inching slowly towards the finish line. But then, the demon turns, and Claude is aghast at what he is faced with.

What first comes to mind is his beloved.

The man that once was, but this vile creature isn’t him. It isn’t the man he loved most. This is just a horrid imitation. Not even that, he will not equate his risen angel with a fallen one. This creature does not share his lover’s eyes. These are sunken obscenities, hollowed out into pits of darkness. Sockets gauged empty and inked with shadows. No pupils, nothing that could reflect light, they are empty, voided and lifeless. 

He was so in love with the blue of his irises; wanted nothing more than to take the sapphire rings from his eyes and use them to bind one another in eternal love. However, that love is now long gone, and in his memory, Claude will kill whose kind is responsible.

The more he gazes at this demon the less of a correlation he finds between it and the man from his memory, and that angers him, to the point of making his teeth grit. Claude readies the shot, but his fingers don’t want to unclench from the drawstring. Just a couple ounces of pressure, that’s all he needs to release, but when blonde hair finds him, blonde hair that’s similarly styled like the man he yearned for, _continues to yearn for_ _,_ he only seems to want to prolong the moments. 

Its face, the distinct features it comprises do not match his memory, but, it is the shape of the face itself that kindles a fond memory. A familiar face. A flatter chin, not immediately curving into the sides of its face, the stretch of its mandible, the dimensions alike the ones he once knew.

He has to take the shot. Claude cannot allow this abomination to exist and desecrate the memories he considers most precious. 

Sadness, the inexplicable feeling of sadness finds harbor in his chest where his heart once used to coexist. The demon’s eyes are incapable of conveying sadness (or any emotion) and yet, Claude understands the helplessness. Is this what his love felt in his last moments? Knowing that his life had reached an end and that he had to cross it alone, dying at the hands of what humans fear most? It breaks him.

He lowers his bow and arrow, and at the hands of mercy, the demon scampers into the ever growing night. A place where Claude won’t search for it.

His arrow is purgatory, the balance of life and death held on its wooden shaft. It could take away life, or it could spare it. By sparing it, the demon’s fate becomes fixed. For now, the scales are balanced, there is no heaven or hell here, only the medium, which is earth. Both traverse this plane unhappily, and Claude recognizes that when it’s his turn to die, he will suffer the same outcome all those of little faith do.

**LUST** ****

He wakes wet from spend and sweat. His body wrung with infatuation, with lust, and now it clings to him and his small clothes. He succumbed to a false temptation. Dreams are never as good as the actual thing, never as sweet, never as fervid. It is not real, it is the seductive whispers of a snake, showing him and telling him what he most wants.

This is the first time he’s dreamt of his lover in many moons. It drains him, both physically and emotionally. Weathered muscles sink over drubbed bones, this weightlessness only achieved after climax. 

There is no excitement, no pleasure, only melancholy. There is no satisfaction in waking to an empty bed.

Why now, he asks himself. Why relive the heartache, why reopen old wounds that still feel so tender. Are the cicatrices that entomb his heart not enough? Must he carve his own heart open with incisions? Each cut hitting deeper until the artery of his love’s name is severed. The demon is at fault. Its appearance has rused his mind. Made him recall the passion he once felt for living, now he seeks to change the world to satisfy his vision. Through the deaths of the wicked is the only way to prevail. They had given him no other option. Demons took the compromise when they took his love away from him. He had been alone for far too long in this world, and finally, when he had found someone to fill that void, the void took him away. 

What now, is the other question that occupies his mind. Nothing else to do now than to confront the demonic entity and purge it from his mind. So he goes looking, looking and looking, the day turns to night and only then does he find it. 

When in sight the demon runs in the opposite direction. Running, running, and running until it reaches nowhere and becomes cornered by Claude, the wild rabbit in this chase, always with his tricks. The demon tilts its head, the projection of its eyes aimed at the bow in his hands. The grip of claws becomes more adhesive to the javelin it holds; stagnant are the fingers of the body on standby. On guard, waiting for the worst to come to pass. 

The demon had many opportunities to attack, but it chose not to rely on aggression. Claude would characterize its movements as shy seeing as how it tries to shrink the closer he gets. Claude delays, if only to look at the demon in closer detail. Perhaps appreciation is not the right word, but there is wonder in his gaze, a spark of interest as its bizarre anatomy is revealed to only him. The body is large in size, lanky, overall lacking in body mass. Exoskeletal details are accentuated by the tightness of the gray skin surrounding it. Of small waist but broad chest and shoulders, the calcified bone protruding from the placement of the ribs, as is the same for the clavicles and sternum. Bones unveiled and presented to his human eyes, tangible enough to grasp with the flinch of digits. The hunter attempts to reach but the demon takes a step back, warding, but finitely defeated when it finds itself held up by mountainous terrain. 

Claude draws his hand back, creating more of an opening between him and hellish beast. He ponders for a moment the best course of action to take, and decides upon the most reckless one. The bow of his hand tossed to the floor, though the quiver remains nestled to his back. It breaks eye contact to gaze upon the weapon that had fallen inches deep into snow. The demon makes no attempts to move, distracted by the baffling actions of a hunter. To disown oneself of a weapon in the presence of a demon might as well be suicide. Maybe that’s what Claude wanted all along, a quick end to remove the burden of life from his shoulders.

He brings a glove to his lips and pinches it between teeth to remove it. The weight of the glove is kept afloat by the strength of enamel, that is, until he was able to secure the item with the other hand. With the nakedness of his hand he reaches out once again, a second time, barren from all protection. He sheds his figurative armor for this demon, going as far as unleashing the plates of steel that barricade his asunder heart. In this moment he is at his most vulnerable, and all to gain the trust of the being he was made to abhor. 

Claude firstly focuses his attention on its peculiar mouth. Sharp teeth contained within a mouth, quite human in appearance until it gets to the sides. There are tears that elongate upwards towards the ends of the cheeks, fleshy bits peering, contouring into the thick muscles that surround the openings on the sides of its face. Reaching the end of its mouth he finds the presence of rhytids under the eyes, the deep folds of its eyes mimicking the striations of muscle. 

There too are horns that capture his attention, protruding from the top of the head. Thin and somewhat long, they extend outward, and right beneath are the demon’s ears, located just below the horns. Its appearance reminds Claude about a creature from fiction. 

Two fingers enter the demon’s orifice. The pads of his fingers traversing past the lips and onto the teeth. Claude feels the sharpness on the pads of his fingers, beckoning him to test, and test he does. Fingers press downwards, the slight sting of a prick and the growl of a beast. Drops of blood start in uniform, abandoning his body to be inside another’s. Claude begins to drag his fingers down, smearing what he could of his blood over teeth and lips, dipping down well over the valley of the demon’s mouth. His blood still produces a vermilion pigment, creating two stripes that drip down over the demon. From chin to neck, both his primary and secondary finger dabble into the superficial muscles of the neck. Perpendicular to one another, his fingers stretch to reach the dividing muscles. The demon lowers its head to look at Claude's actions, settling for visuals when sensory just wouldn’t cut it. With this, Claude guesses that demon’s aren’t that perceptive to touch, either that, or, this demon in particular is very good at faking. 

A mewl slowly transitions to a grumble as Claude continues his indulgence over the v-shape muscles. Two separate muscles posted on opposite sides of the neck, right over the ridges of the throat, his fingers continue to draw until they come to reach the proximal ends. From there he proceeds to the next segment. 

His blood marks the beast at present, drying over graying skin even as he continues to administer it. Eventually Claude runs out of blood, his wound clots and leaves upon the demon a phantom touch. His fingers still in their pursuit downwards, gentle as nails ghost over the flat of the demon’s abdomen, going lower and lower until there is nothing. 

Realizing what’s happening, Claude stops himself short of committing yet another mistake. He bends down with haste to gather his bow and leaves without looking back. This is the last time he indulges his whims.

**GLUTTONY**

A willowy blonde, haggard to the point of pity. The emancipated state of the demon’s body causes the hunter to worry (strangely enough). So scrawny, does it even have the strength to defend itself against the hurdle known as mankind? Claude thinks it cannot. 

Demons don't eat like humans do, they feed through other means, by consuming energy. Energy that is absorbed from humans, or other living life sources. Now, whether they are capable of eating a tangible meal, that is yet to be discovered. Lucky for him he has the perfect subject for this; a demon that satiates his ventures for curiosity. 

They start out small, a single pomegranate to see if that fills the demon’s slender stomach. Claude wants to know if they can eat solids, and if so, to what extent. Can demons taste? If yes, what tastes are accessible to their palate? Can they distinguish more than one flavor? Is their sense of taste as complex as humans or underdeveloped? So many questions, a seed for each question he has.

The hunter picks a seed from the cluster. When removing it from the membrane, his digits become so saturated in color that his skin transitions from brown to red. Initially the demon was repulsed by his advancements, declining the fruit at every attempt, but now its resistance has withered, and with a stain akin to blood blotches on his skin, the demon desires a similar effect. It opens its mouth in earnest. The seed seems to be the demon’s only focus once his digits reach its mouth. Once the weight of the seed is felt on the margin of lips, the demon pinches it between the row of its teeth. Claude’s fingers still remain on either side of the pit, but quickly releases it before teeth clamp too tight and bite his fingers off. He manages to do so just in time. Now he just watches silently as the seed is bitten to bits, shredded, with only the cracking noise to fill the lack of banter. 

Claude spots traces of red on the demon’s tongue and teeth. A miniscule trace considering the small amount of coloring on the seed itself. He too finds some bits of the seed lodged between teeth, and over gums. The more broken down pieces turned to mush on its tongue. The demon does not swallow, _how strange_ , but even so, it is up to him to instruct this demon on the proper way of eating a pomegranate seed.

Claude plops a seed into his mouth as demonstration. His lips form a tight seal around the seed as his tongue works around it to strip it of all its zest. Slightly bitter but no less doable. Once all the flavor had been removed, he took out the seed to showcase the new bland exterior. Devoid of its juice, all he has to offer is a rippling seed soggy with spit. 

This demon is unphased by the demonstration. Its eyes are an abyss, an endless long stare paired with an unremarkable expression. It may not have understood how Claude managed to extract the flavoring. Understandably so, considering his demonstration had been insightful in the least. His mouth was closed with no way of the demon knowing what went on behind said lips, unaware of how the tongue needs to captivate the seed, and the importance of teeth to get it to relinquish its flavor.

Claude had just assumed that the concept of sucking is one that applied to demons as well, guess he had been wrong on that. No matter, there are other ways to convey his methods.

He rids of the seed by littering it into the ground. Then he goes for another, fingers digging into pockets filled with various seeds and plucking one raw. Claude sticks out his tongue, toppling over his bottom lip and begins to drag the seed over the wet tongue. One linear stripe, he is certain that the pomegranate’s nectar transferred over in one swipe. He then pulls the seed away and turns it, to show the demon that it is the work of the tongue which is most important. 

Two sides, the flavor picked clean from one, while the other side still remains with its juices. He will rectify that now, by working his tongue around the remains, but his student wants to start practice now. Claude stiffs when the demon leans forward, the rumbling of its throat expanding and contracting the muscles of the throat. What he sees first is the underside of the demon’s neck moving, and then, its long tongue leaving the mouth. Blue in coloration it darts out, the tip of it making contact with the unused part of the seed, and inevitably, Claude’s fingers. There is no dexterity, no conscious effort to stay within the confines of the seed. Just laps its tongue wantonly over where it can. A demon’s tongue is not as wet as a human’s. Claude can feel more friction because of it. Said friction causes a shiver to form at the base of his spine and it stays there, locked in place, causing an uncomfortable strain.

Without meaning to Claude drops the seed. The demon follows its descent with a drop of its head. Given enough time Claude plucks another seed and manages to gain the demon’s attention with it. A spark of interest, those demonic eyes follow faithfully the item he holds. Eventually, the seed is led into Claude’s mouth, cushioned tight between two rows of pearly whites. The opening of his lips showing that teeth keep it sustained, nestled as the flat of his tongue presses behind the seed. The red becomes dilute with the spread of his saliva, making it easier for its juices to gloss over tongue and lips. 

It has been Claude’s intention to best demonstrate how to work the seed with the assistance of teeth. To use them to hold it in one place whilst the tongue acts with the most carnal desires. However, this hellish beast has intentions of its own.

Claude’s eyes are overcome by gaunt features. The demon gets close, too close to his face, that even its mere exhale dampens his skin. Claude feels only when the demon’s tongue enters him. Quite superficial to call it an entry. Its tongue presses over the seed, and with time manages to maneuver its tongue behind the seed, forcing Claude’s tongue out of bounds. He holds his breath. Unable to see past their noses, his hands clench around the fruit, anxious to what this demonic entity has planned. Could this be a possession, is this how the demon will take claim over his body?

He could do little else but keep his mouth open as the demon inserts more of itself inside. Its tongue looping around the seed, the thickness of the wrap forcing Claude’s mouth to spread even more to accommodate. A moan betrays him, the mere existence of it eludes Claude. This is not something that he should fancy, and yet, when their breaths hitch in their throats, it is impossible to do nothing. 

That being said, Claude is not foolish enough to let his guard down completely, his eyes remain open throughout the ordeal, if only a bit lidded. His jaw is starting to become sore, if anything, this is just a product of the experiment.

The tension continues to build in his hands. Nails dig through the rind, cracking at the thick skin of the pomegranate. His thumbs push inwards through that initial barrier, going past the pillowy membrane and tearing the fruit apart once the demon steals the seed from his mouth. That had been the point of climax. 

Claude watches breathless as the demon bites the seed, finding enjoyment in the crackly texture and sounds it creates. It had never been about Claude, didn’t even look at him, instead it focuses on the wasted seeds. A clash of red on snow because of spilled fruit. Chunks of pomegranates surround his feet, and equally at his fingers as he still has some to hold.

**GREED**

All the days leading up to this the demon had attempted to escape when it came to Claude. To run the second he turned face, to shy away from his touch, to cringe and hide whenever Claude made his presence known. Though today, today all is different. Today is the day that the hunter becomes the hunted, and not in the conventional sense. 

Through his curiosity, at the end of each encounter, the hunter left knowing something new. Fragments of information that challenges his understanding of demons. And because of this, he feels that with each ending night, he knows less and less of the world he inhabits. To fill these gaps of knowledge, he seeks out this demon, again, again and again. A demon that doesn’t talk, a demon that cannot share its secrets, but still, he learns them because of his desire. 

Thanks to this desire he finds himself in a predicament. As a hunter he’s failed to rid the lands of this demonic entity. It lives because of him. Claude cannot kill him, well he can, he just doesn’t want to, _not yet_. That’s what he always tells himself, it is not time yet. There is still more knowledge that he can obtain, secrets that he can unearth to help humanity. Though if this truly were about the benefit of humanity, he would have shared his findings with the church. Would have informed the other hunters of the existence of this unusual demon, but he hadn’t. This is his secret and his secrets remain well hidden. A maze of valves, veins and arteries. The complexities his heart beholds cannot be accessed by anyone, he’s made it impossible to. 

Only when he bleeds do his secrets do too. 

He wants this demon all to himself, so perhaps it is greed that keeps his mouth silent. It is not about ownership, it is about having what no one else has, and no one else has what he has, a demon. A demonic existence, of the very kind that tore his lover away from him. This is about power, power he won't relinquish just yet. Between them the roles are reversed, it is the demon that cowers at his intellect, or so he assumes.

For tonight, tonight he entertains the demon’s whims. A tug at his ear, he gives little in terms of reaction when its fingers toy with the loop of his earring. It is the nail that goes through the opening, long, sharp and blackened as it moves down, and in consequence, his lobe moves down as well. With no way to account this action, Claude only groans when the demon tugs too harshly. At the noise it stops its curious gestures, only to have them continue again seconds later. Its face gets closer, enraptured by the gold band as it ravels into a perfect circle. 

The rush of its breath potent enough to stir his earring into movement, pushing it against his skin. A numbing cold that acts quickly to unsettle his nerves. At the shudder the demon gets closer, sheltering the hunter from the cold with its cape. 

Winter is not a thing that can be subsided with one measly layer, no matter how thick and warm it happens to be. Even when a body presses close to him, it appears so frail that it manages nothing to keep the flakes of frost at bay. Snow still mounts his lashes, delicate, it coats the dark coloration lighter. The hue of his face dissipates, reduced to a pink, his body’s way of generating heat to ward off the cold. His hair, it too is covered in snow, speckled white to contrast his dark and unruly mane.

The demon continues to enrapture him still, something it has learned from watching Claude wrap himself in layers. Far from instinct, it is a learned habit. Even so, when the demonic presence starts to nose at his earring, playful and innocent, Claude can’t help but turn his face to look at it. When he does he is overwhelmed by his own emotions, built up to the brink he spills, showing a moment of weakness when his hand tangles within blonde locks.

He misses his beloved, dearly, and although he and it are not the same, this is closure. They are dissimilar in appearance but so alike in mannerisms, both awkward and incomprehensive of the world that surrounds them. Gentle giants to a world that did not allow them to be. Sometimes he wonders what it is about him that attracts these kinds of personalities. Personalities that don’t want to attract attention, where passiveness has been ingrained to them as a birthright. He himself is not like that. He wants attention because he never received it when young, that’s why he acts the way he does, wears the things he does. The gold of his earring is a beacon of light that draws those within the shadows.

Darkness will always consume light, or at least, try to. He is a flare, vibrant and enigmatic, bursting with light for minutes at a time. Enough to get recognized if only for a while. He likes the darkness because it is where he shines his brightest. And even here, where he is threatened to be buried beneath this beast of nightfall, he is starlight shining his way through an endless nightmare.

And this endless nightmare has him in his clutches, but he is not afraid. Too reminded of the forgotten one, a soul lost forever out of his grasp. He cannot help that once he looks at those features he is reminded of his love that has long since sprouted wings to fly. To keep this demon from reaching the skies he will anchor it, he will be the weight that keeps it in hell. So he clutches tightly, keeps its face close, steering it towards the light of gold. He wonders then if the demon would have the same reaction with other materials, if it will be as fanatic.

In the coming days he holds his trials for different metals, to see if they too ignite the same fascination within the demon. They do not. No matter the size or shape, not even how ornate the gems were, mattered. All that moved the demon was yellow, that liquid gold turned infinite. Just like his past love, it was what appealed to him. The glint when reflected upon his sapphire hues, the weight of it on his teeth when he tugged. 

It all feels too familiar, and at the same time, it does not. This demon cannot replace what was once lost, but it can give him something new.

**ANGER**

His hand caressed the pelt adorned pon slim shoulders. Smooth across his fingers, the hairs that rebel against his skin go flat with the press of his hand. Ever mindful to avoid the pitfalls of where the weapons lie embedded on it. A rumble from deep within, the beast is satiated by his fingers and how they rummage over its hair and cloak. Toying with the fibers so easily accessible to him, like this he feels invincible, having tamed a beast from hell with less than a bow and arrow.

It is that confidence that drives him to do silly things, silly such as brushing his fingers against one of the weapons. The demon becomes rigid once the lance inside starts to rattle, loosening the wound which it pierced. He digs his fingers into the slits of the pelt, moving into the grooves until he’s able to feel skin. From there it is jagged, scarified tissue at his fingertips. Textures he has long since become familiar with.

The demon becomes unsettled, leaning away from his touch, unappreciative of Claude’s affection, of all he tries to do. He doesn’t take kindly to this show of rebellion, and purposely grasps at one of the weapons bonded to the demon’s body. It loosens, slipping out a tad bit the more the demon moves in opposition. Scriptures of radiant light brand the sides of the weapon, extending all the way into the skin where the mark of white magic seals the beast.

A painful howl rips from the beast’s lungs. From his position he can see the saliva furiously fall from the sides of its mouth. Freezing solid once it struck cool air. The snarls that arise from it are so vicious that they resemble that of a wild animal. Reduced to baser instinct it thrashes on the ground, doing maneuvers of all kinds to get Claude to release, and Claude almost does, but he’s too adamant not to do so. 

Instead of focusing on pain the demon should see the end goal, which is to release these metaphorical shackles. Without these weapons bound to it, the demon could lead a better life, if there even is a life to lead after this. Claude supposes that these specialized weapons were put in place for a reason. Spellbound, because if not for magic, retrieving them would not have proved to be such a challenge. 

Claude can feel its anger overflowing, powering its body through fits of rage. To subside these intense emotions Claude places his foot on the demon’s back, forcing it to reside in one spot. He resists by placing his weight on it, and with two hands, begins to make advancements in pulling the weapon out. Each inch is a struggle, physically draining him from his energy. If this were a heroic tale it’d be about a hero of legend pulling a magic sword from stone, but he is no hero, just a fool of a hunter enticed with the flames of hell.

Almost out, it’s almost out, and the closer they get to the end the longer its screams prolong. The body beneath is convulsing, desperate for the wings of freedom to take shape and carry it away from this eternal suffering. After Claude successfully removes this they’ll be eight more, and then, and only then, will it have a semblance of peace.

But peace does not come without war.

The demon backhands him, forcing his feet from the ground with a might he’s never known. These quick seconds in the air, this is what it feels like to fly, to travel with wings, to float away by the hands of sweet liberty. But his wings give out from under him, and thus his descent commences, escorting him into the wickedness of hell.

When Claude returns to earth it is head first. The feathers from his wings have been ripped astray. Their trail cushioning his fall in the form of snow. White, heavenly, cold, it enters his body without welcome. In return, he corrupts the purity of snowfall with his blood, painting it the devil’s red.

This is an outcome he never expected but should have considered. Demons are akin to beasts, wild and thoughtless in their methods, jumping at the chance to become provoked by anything. Even if one’s intentions are good, they cannot see that because they themselves are not good. They can’t sustain themselves with hearty emotions. They thrive from fear, feed from it, all while spreading anger through the flames of ignorance.

Claude’s face hurts where he was struck. The side of his face throbbing with ache. If he were to touch no doubt that it would be warm. A rush of blood to the head heats his face, the warmth of himself oozes out from the opening of his nostril. Frost bitten, his blood becomes crystallized once it strikes snow. It takes him a couple of seconds to come to. The rush of adrenaline slowly resurfaces, melting the sheet of frost above him with each movement. 

He sits up, a dizzying motion, but nonetheless, something he’s capable of. When surveying his surroundings he finds a lack of beast. Nothing furrowing beneath the deep feet of snow, just a serenity that had not been known just seconds ago. 

His fingers first find his bow, tossed aside during the fall. Pads of digits tracing the groove of each masterful indent that he carved into the handle himself. To some it is decorative, to him it is a way of honoring the secrecy behind his mixed blood. Once his weapon is fully under his possession he scouts for his arrows, plucks them from the snow one by one until his fingers start turning white at the tips. Into the quiver each one is slotted, and as he does, silently thanks Lady Luck for keeping a watchful eye on him. 

Claude gets to his feet and stumbles with the first step. So much snow is a hindrance for the legs and an archer must be everything but slow. An archer must be nimble, swift, coordinated, precise, whichever the antonyms may be, he cannot afford to be any of those when his survival is at stake.

Dutifully he follows footprints meshed into the deep onset of snow. Their presence is scant under the moon’s waning light, but nevertheless, he’s able to come across them once his very feet fall inside the recognizable patterns. It is then that he hears screams within the distance, screams that aren't the demon’s. He picks his pace with urgency, following the sounds of despair when they heckle through the woods. The closer he nears the more silencing it gets. These screams die off one by one, his worst fears confirmed true once he arrives at the scene.. 

Listless bodies circle the demon. The gruesomeness of their fatalities are distinctive by the severity of their wounds. A sight so bloody that it causes the hunter to grow pale. It is not the cold that withers his pigment away, but the dawning reality that he allowed this to happen. By keeping the demon alive he had secured the deaths of these innocents. 

While the demon has its back turned to him, the hunter draws out an arrow and shoots. The arrowhead pierces through its shoulder with how emancipated its body is. The demon howls as it drops its weapon, a lance bloody with the blood of the blameless. 

Before giving it the opportunity to counteract, Claude shoots another arrow, joining the rest of the litter on its shoulders.

**HERESY**

To merely kill the demon would have been a waste, at least, that is the excuse he gives the church. As a hunter he couldn’t do what was required of him, couldn't put an arrow inside its skull just as he had done the many demons before it. He was weak, _still is weak_ , even as he hands over the reins of the rope that subdues the demon. The bishop answers his call, her supple skin galloping over his, the pads of her digits memorizing the curve of his knuckles as she takes the rope from his possession. She stands before the light that shines through stained glass. Her presence masked by the luminesce that bathes her in moonlight. She looks so ethereal presiding over her dominion, a ruler in appearance, everything the light touches is hers without question. But Claude is a question of his own, an anomaly, the light doesn’t reach him so he remains obscured in shadow. Perhaps this has meaning, perhaps it does not, but he does not miss how her touch seems to flitter from him. As if he were the very darkness itself, something meant to be shunned and unseen and scared of. 

Shadows blindly follow light, but Rhea is a light that he will not blindly follow. He will remain in the depths, as deep as the trepidations in his heart allow. He does not feel like he’s making the correct choice. Doesn’t completely trust her. She keeps too many secrets, but then again so does he. He’s looking so desperately to right his wrongs and Rhea offers him that to him, offers to amend his mistake. 

“You’ve done good, child.” Her voice sounds so warm. The heat of her voice intensifies, becomes searing as it burns through his flesh. He burns like a sinner in church. The decadent walls transform into hot flames and surround him. His body swelters from the inside as he stands in the pit of hell. His guilt manifests so lucidly, and only made worse by the demon’s harrowing screeches. 

Catherine is the one who takes lead on the rope then, with her tall steps, she passes Claude, and through her strength he’s able to hear the drag of a body. The hunter does not look back, fights the urge to do so even when he hears nails clamor on the floor. Snarls, the vibrations of its throat coming out deep and slurred with so much aggression. Eventually its voice begins to die out, simmering cold as the audible noises become flatter. The suggestion of a name, he can make out ‘cl’ and the ending of an ‘e’, a product so disturbed in sound that it’s hard to make out what it’s meant to be. Through trials each pronunciation is different. With no method of vocalizing clearly, the demon’s voice leaves from the apertures on its face and that affects the delivery of the word. 

His ear picks up on the ‘a’ sound. C-l-a and e, is it his name, could the demon be trying to vocalize his name? How is it even possible when he’s never revealed it!? His fists clench at his sides.

“A demon only promises that which it cannot give.” She holds on to Claude’s chin, two fingers supporting his weight, and with a minor lift, demands his stare on her. “Do not fall for its tricks. No matter how much a demon mimics it can never be human.” She speaks again, and just as her voice had once been hot, it now freezes over, dissolving the heat completely from his heated bones. 

With her skin comes a chill, it is unsettling as it reminds him of how the demon felt. Cold on its exterior, the shell of a body made of leathery flesh, firm to touch and thick, with blood vessels simply not enough to heat and fill it with color. She feels more like a demon than the actual demon, if only for the reason that she cannot provide warmth. At least with the other he felt some semblance of warmth. It came through its cape, heavy and thick and coated with the smell of embers. The comparison is not the same, because heat did not transfer from body to body, but still, the demon compensated for its lack by using an article of clothing. All for Claude’s sake, because it knew that he had been cold.

Rhea’s body is a vessel housing a farce soul. Emotions always ingenuine, the steely look in her eyes tells him she’s always devoid of it. The goddess’s embrace, what does it truly grant her in terms of character? Is it grace and purity, if so, the white she wears only looks gray on her. Gray, like the clouds that hang above his head. He should leave and return when his thoughts clear. And so, that is what he does, he returns the next day, but doesn’t feel all that much better for doing so. 

A faint scream fills his ears each time he wanders through the halls. Each wayward sound gives life to every room he enters as the stones rumble at every touch. He recognizes the vocals, even when rooted deep within the church, there’s no doubt that it belongs to the demon. A sense of guilt overcomes him, but why? He should be apathetic to the demon’s suffering, and the reality is that he isn’t. 

Each day he wanders in he wants to see its whereabouts, wants to see it, see how it’s coping. Claude, to some degree, trusted the demon, and it betrayed his trust. He wants to see the look of betrayal upon the demon’s face, to know that it can feel what he feels. To know that they are one in the same. Perhaps because they are one in the same he feels for it, he feels dread for what must be ongoing in the underground. Each day he hears it, even from meters up, he carries the screams with him. Heavy like a cloak, the whispers of mayhem feel heavy on his shoulders.

No matter how many times he asks, in which way he asks, Rhea won’t let him see, won’t even allow him to set foot on the stairs heading down. Hunters keep watch at all times, all too aware of his tendencies to slip through the cracks.

So far he’s been unable.

**VIOLENCE**

Being here, for him, is a desperate attempt. To be amongst a person who was once a part of him, a part of his creed, and still managed to disregard them all the same. Like they were nothing. For certain she must have had her reasons, but nothing she’s divulged thus far. Her knowledge, her beliefs, her secrets, they are all hers and hidden within the confines of sterling. A box full of trinkets, metal on its outsides, sinks down to the very bottom, irretrievable, never to be grasped again. She rid the key the day she had dissolved from the church, the very same day his love had died. 

Edelgard crosses one leg over the other, the sound of leather fabricates a sound of strangulation, breathlessness, just as he feels due to her powerful silence. It chokes him dry, the leather so smooth and sleek that he can spot the gist of his reflection under candlelight. Silence lingers as her hands come about at the top of her knee, restful, as the thumbs of her hands cross one over the other. He cannot see her face in its entirety. Half only visible when her low tipped hat covers the daunting gaze of her eyes. 

Claude takes out a silver coin, shows off its two sides before laying it to rest on the table’s countenance. The press of two fingers causes the coin to glide, his body leans forward as he motions towards her, this coin being his offering. This is a trade, he pays the price for her knowledge, and above all else, a show of faith and goodwill. This was never about catching up with an old acquaintance. 

She tilts her head up, and as she does, her head follows a natural curve to the side. The slant that comes from it exposes one of her eyes, the other, still remains in shadow. “Speak then. What is it that you seek from me?” The violet of her eye is colder than any storm he’s endured. Everything about her is sharp and calculating. Those qualities of hers emulate his to some degree, and if they’re as alike as he bargains for, she’d appreciate his forward approach. 

“I want to know why you left the church.” 

She leans forward, upper body hovering proximal to the table. She waits until her sight is on the coin prior to getting her hand within reach and flicking it off with her index. The coin is sent hurtling back, its trajectory stops once Claude places his hold on the silver. The weight of him all it takes to stop it on its tracks. Her incline is slow to happen when she reverts back into the chair. Silence speaks volumes on her behalf, demanding that he rephrase the question, because, when it comes to alluding to her reasons, she is vaguer than mist. 

If Claude is good at one thing it’s cutting up his words and phrasing them into something new. His fingers come around the border of the coin to pick it up and roll it through his fingers. A trick he picked up when young. Eventually, it ends up flat against his thumb, and with a snap, ends up flipping the coin back to her. It spins in midair following an arch. Gravity will have it come down just inches from her face. Judgment in the form of silver, it tips the scales in her favor when her fist clenches around it. 

When Edelgard opens her hand she is empty handed. It seems she knows some tricks of her own.

“Rhea told me, no matter how much a demon mimics, it could never be human. Do you agree with her?”

Her answer is quick like the draw of a knife. “Demons were once human themselves, that’s why a lot of them hold similarities to us in terms of physicality. I don’t necessarily think it’s the act of being human that attracts them to the living, but the want of being alive.” Vertebrae straightens, shoulders squared, she’s sizing up her next answer when her orifice is left hanging, awaiting for the right words to slip out. “It is common knowledge that Rhea and I never saw eye to eye. As always, my answer tends to be in opposition to hers, but, you already know that. I suspect your only interest in my opinion is to gauge how right yours is. My guess is you’re having doubts.”

That guess is entirely correct. Demons are meant to be rebuked by the church, leaving it alive is a contradiction of the teachings. A swift death is the best form of exorcism, with no vessel to cling to, the spirit has nowhere else to be, and thus, reverting back to hell. She denies this demon that. Could it be for the same reasons Claude had? Could they be acquainted? Whichever the answer, it adds no value to his next statement. “And my guess is you had doubts of your own and left.”

Edelgard’s hands leave her knee only to veer themselves over the armrests, the leather coating her digits raking over the leather of the seat. A symphony for the ears coupled with the sound of her voice, “you are correct,” she says.

He didn't even give her words a moment to marinate, to permeate his active mind. He just wants to know, and doesn’t seem to care how the rush of his vocals makes him sound so impatient. “Edelgard you have to tell me-”

“This is nothing a lone man can accomplish.” Her interruption is defying and deliberate, choosing this moment to remind him that he is alone, and has been for a while. “Though I will indulge you in this, what she said to you is in reference to herself.”

“How so? You suspect that she is a demon?”

“My suspicions were proven right the night I left.” She brings a hand to her face, elbow still resting on the cushion of the armrest. The back of her hand supporting the tilt of her face, her knuckles lining up perfectly beneath the margins of the malar bone. 

This is the thing about Edelgard, no matter the situation she always remains calm and collected. An excellent huntress, her lack of fear over her mortality molded her into one of the best. Claude is not like her in that sense, he is not as black and white. Death exists, yes, but to him it is a game to see how long he can postpone it. His relaxation comes from knowing that he’s fooled death one too many times. So he asks her, dialing back the rush in his voice, “what happened?” 

“There was a man, a man you were well acquainted with, a man who walked, talked and acted as we do and she turned him anew. Turned him into a demon. Ripped flesh from bone and skewered him with magic, forever shackling him to our world, unable to return to the man he once was.”

_‘a man you were well acquainted with’_

The implications are too powerful to ignore. The reels of events begin to play out in his mind in order of Edelgard’s retelling. The day she left is the day his lover died, except she is implying that he didn’t die, that instead he got turned into a demon by Rhea. Her point is further amplified by the fact that he’s found a demon that upholds some similarities to his other half.

“Tell me his name .” He commands. The name he thinks of, _Dimitri’s_. 

That name makes his blood boil, only because if true, that means that he has doomed his lover to even worse fates. If true that means it is his fault that his lover is imprisoned and undergoing acts of torture every day. If true, then it would mean that he pierced his love with arrows, arrows of heartbreak because he did not have the love within him that some mythical god had. 

He should have known. There were signs all around he was just too trapped in his hurt to see. The mannerisms involving the earring, the way it, no, _he_ tried to speak his name. It makes sense now and it makes him absolutely nauseous to have been blinded to it all. He feels pain, so much pain and he needs Edelgard to confirm it in order to rip out his heart and give it to Dimitri, for penance, to make his wrongs right. 

“Tell me!” He does not speak kind because he does not feel kind. A revelation all it takes to rid him of his perfect composure. She tilts her head to acknowledge him but shows no signs of doing more. Merely watching as her words become responsible for his undoing.

Claude empties out his pockets, throws all the silver within his possession over the table. If one coin won’t do he’ll give her as many as it takes, whatever her price he’ll give it. Her stare diverges to the glint of cascading coinage, enraptured by the clacking of coin as they scatter over the table. Unmoved by it all she still doesn’t respond. 

In protest he flips the table over. Even then she shows little reaction, if any, at his exertion of force. This act of defiance grants him nothing. 

Edelgard brings out a coin from between two fingers, the first coin he had given her. “Heads or tails?” she asks.

Claude breathes heavily with barely suppressed rage. He heaves from the chest, from anger, frustration, from every emotion that he’s bottle up for so long. He does not entertain her, does not provide an answer, because he deems her behavior too insulting. She is downplaying his situation with a game of chance and that he will won’t answer to. He’s too proud and unwilling, so he’ll settle for the burn in his eyes. 

Without further ado she flips the coin, it twirls high before it inevitably comes down into her palm. Upon feeling its weight she forms a fist around it, so greedy that her hand shakes. After extending the suspense she slowly pries her fingers loose, revealing the tail end of the coin. Edelgard shakes her head in refusal. “I cannot divulge anymore,” is the last thing she says, the last thing he’s willing to hear. 

From hunter to hunter he gives her a farewell, bittersweet in demonstration when he quickly turns his back on her to take his leave. It is when his fingers curl around the handle that she tells him one last thing.

“Head to the abyss for the questions you have yet to ask, but do be careful of the secrets you unleash.”

**FRAUD**

“What have you done to him?”

The question comes out between their private moment. He waited for the opportune time to ask the question. From behind he cannot see her expression, nor is he able to visualize it with his imagination, but, with the shifting of hands that came thereby after, Claude can tell she shows interest.

Hands once nestled in the small of her back moved forward, the tips of her fingers forming a tent that will tip into a water’s surface. Free from impurities, the holiness the water emits cleanses her, and the ripples that form in the water become imagery of her ever lasting influence. She, of course, makes Claude wait. The resurgence of water’s movement makes Claude aware of her leisurely pace, of her unwillingness to show him any urgency. She continues to dawdle, to waste time by encircling her cold fingers around the stoup’s edges.

“To who?” She speaks without pressure. Stress does not strain her vocal cords, in fact, they strum sweetly, mimicking the sweet angles of her face. He can hear the smile form at her lips, the saccharin drench of red that coats her lips. The color red diluting, turning her mouth rosy, something docile and unthreatening. A flower that enacts calm. The green of her hair is a stem bewildered with thorns. The rest of her, the white, the red, are the showing signs of winter, and how a flower wilts as the color is seeped from the edges.

A petal falls. The aperture of her orifice gives rise to new meanings, new words: “Who is him?” She rephrases the question, though the answer remains the same, raptured by the hands of silence. 

Rhea turns her head, the shuffling of her hair exposing her profile. Her eye is sharp, so contrary to the soft curves of her lips. She smiles even now, deceitful, but that is within her nature.

Claude crosses his arms, nails digging into the swell of muscle at his biceps once he accomplishes his feat. He must be like her, wrap himself of false sentiments to earn trust. And it works, to some degree. The neutral line of his lips conveys far too little of his anger, dwindling it down to smoked ashes. 

She trusts too much and gets too close, so close that he can spot the color of her eye transcending into something entirely new. A momentary burst of color, with a lifespan as short as a mortal’s. Claude continues to hide his true intentions, his true self, but that control starts to slip the closer she draws near.

A knife to the throat, so simple, and yet, that simple act can end it all. But he wanes off from commiting. Such up and close tactics are not for him. They are too incriminating, too personal. He chooses arrows for a reason. His feelings on the matter are much more alienating, subjective, he kills from a distance, from the shadows, so there is no trace of him (just like this world had wanted for him for so long). 

“Follow me.” She says, leading him into the corridors, to the crooks and crannies he had no hope of entering on his own. With her at his side he has access to restricted routes. He starts by committing the layout to memory, and with that, exploits that could get him in without anyone seeing. Though so far a silent entry proves to be impossible. The underground is crafted by stone, heavy boulders shaped and stacked to form impenetrable walls. If any openings exist within the crevices they are unseen by eyes. That means no way of looking in or out. He also notes a lack of windows, reducing any method of entry that he may have had. When it comes to guards there are only two at the foot of the entry, always alternating shifts in different intervals. The schedule never repeats, it cycles into new hours everyday. He’s watched previously, even before all this, how the guards move about the church, trading their spots to different locations. The time they were scheduled to change shifts the day before does not match the current day, making it impossible to track. It is as if the guards themselves do not know until the day of. 

To summarize, two guards are the only obstacles between him and the cells. Surprisingly, the path there lacks difficulty. There are no traps, no mazes to steer anyone wrong, it’s just a linear path downwards and they’re there. At most it takes five minutes to reach the cell. And when they do, Claude has to clamor to maintain his breath steady.

His fingers curl around the iron bars that are no doubt enchanted. Gripping tight around their circumference as he bares his face into the cold of steel where the rust bites at his bronze tint. He takes the sight below him, commits it to memory and allows it to hurry the winds brewing inside of him. Dimitri, which is the name he has given this demon, because he is _his_ Dimitri, lays chained to the floor. Burn marks at the ready on his skin, dark crisp edges as the skin tries to heal and thickened epithelium upon other areas. The shape of these forming scars are defined by a sharp tool, cutting deep into the skin, no longer superficial, just so it takes longer to heal. Around the peripheral Claude spots traces of sapphire in liquid form. Claude is certain that this is blood, knows it to be true once he spots the stains near lacerations. It clings to stone just as well as it had to skin, both accommodating the darkening of blood over the days as it grew thicker. 

“Foolish boy, do you not see what I see?”

Her voice is a dull blade that slowly cuts the remaining strands of his right-mindedness. Dimitri was stripped of his cape, forcing him to submit to the cold of these cells where the temperatures dropped lower still. 

**It maddens him.**

Claude wants to call out his name just as he once had, but he’s afraid, afraid that Dimitri won’t respond. He’s so lethargic that he won’t react to others, even when someone talks of him he remains unresponsive. Claude is afraid because what if he’s too late? No, it cannot be too late, he refuses to entertain the thought. He will not fail his love twice, and by the goddess, he will do the unthinkable to have him again. 

The bars of life and death separate them again. However, love is a mighty ally, and he will use that power to pry the iron bars open. 

Then Rhea comments, “This is not a man, this is a demon.” 

Rhea had corrupted Claude's mind. Turned him into a different kind of demon, one that obsessively poured himself over old scriptures. Answers transcribed from historical knowledge, decades of work molded into literary devices by hunters ages before him. Their wisdom passed down through the years, and with time, that wisdom had perished alongside their writers. Contributions forgotten and deemed irrelevant by a new voice. Her charisma and aptitude, far more valued in recent times. Still, he looks through the spacings beneath ink, for secrets, but so far he finds nothing.

Too immersed by pages that had not been scantily clad. Endless blocks of texts fed him information, and he read through them all searching for validation. One book became three, and three became five, and so forth. 

His finger dips into the vastness of melted candles, the surge of pain postpones his slumber for moments at a time. Submerged to the cuticle, the liquid wax clings to him like the thick substance it is. The pain is momentary, but that’s all he needs to keep his eyes alert against the looming shadows. As the seconds pass it hardens on his skin. The spell of pain waning when it coats him in hard white. Wax crackles when he flips the page, remnants of flakes are a thing of the present on old literature. His literal mark on history, that’s what he'll say if questioned for his mess. 

Then he sees it, the name Rhea and it shocks him to say the least. This book was authored a hundred years ago, and even then, the name had relevance. Could the author have spoken of another Rhea? It is not uncommon for families to reuse a name, it is a way of honoring the lineage, but just how long the tradition continues depends on those who wish to uphold it.

He flips through the pages hoping to find similar mentions but that section was the only one that gave reference to any. So what he did is cross reference the published date and searched for any books within that year, and for safe measures, gathered all other books by that same author. His finds were not substantial when it came to volume, but it did give him insight on why Edelgard believed that Rhea was a demon. According to one of the readings, Rhea is the name of a demon born from evil ditches who is responsible for instilling the sin of fraud upon the living realm. To achieve this, the demon itself is fraudulent by undertaking many appearances, most commonly a sorceress.

He rips out the page, folds it, and tucks it into his back pocket for safekeeping. Claude continues on his journey for a weakness, any trace of text that he can use for sabotage against her. Though sabotage works in mysterious ways. The unknown forces work against him, force him into the cradle of sleep, lids ever closing, he fights the urge to keep them shut. In and out of consciousness, this is a battle that he is constantly fighting this night, but one that he’s not prepared to lose. He lifts his hand and places his palm over the burning stroke of heat. A once idle flicker evolves into an arduous snare as the flame dances beneath his palm. Yellow and red swaying into orange, the heat of it, its threat, is what keeps him awake. 

Claude studies the pages, rereads the same passages, reviews that which he already did because he did not retain it the first time. He flips the page again and something catches his interest, a title that reads: Groundening. In dark bold letters. When the fingers of the left hand trace the title, he notices the difference in texture. Ink so thick that it lifts his touch from the page itself. In fact, this entire page seems to be modeled differently, in different ink, in different fonts, each comment revealing something distinct about it. 

Upon further research, he finds that it discusses a ritual, one that is able to bind a demon into the human world, preventing it from returning to where it originated. To accomplish such a thing the ritual required nine hunters, and from these hunters, their enchanted weapons they must relinquish into the beast. Each Hunter represents a sin, and by extension, a level of hell. Each weapon meant to deny entry into the gates of hell, deforming the body, making it unfit for the gates. For a demon would normally require no key because they are the key itself.

He recalls seeing nine weapons lodged in Dimitri, could that mean that such a ritual had taken place?

Claude continues to read frantically through the texts, his other hand still hovering atop the flame. He melts right onto the pages, sweat and frustration melding with the books. Too enthralled now to stop, his eyes scan through every line, taking apart each word to his benefit. When he nears the end of yet another book, his breath halts completely over an illustration. Thin lines make up a familiar face, the demon’s, or better labeled, Dimitri. Whoever the artist was, they drew dark scratches for the eyes until they came out orbital in shape, and still, the depiction remains accurate. The horns also were accounted for, as were the protruding bones and mouth slits. This interpretation is not masterful, but, he’s able to identify the being either way, though there are some striking differences. Instead of having layered hair it was drawn with horizontal ends, an even cut, more or less presentable. He notices a lack of cloak and lances, but below that there is a description. Claude squints his eyes to focus but ends up grunting once pain is introduced. 

He became too distracted and slacked the tension in his hand. For a moment he had direct contact with the flame, and it ended up burning his palm. The sting is already present, would even say intensified by the burning ache spreading through his hand. With his reaction he knocked the candle over the book, precisely over the drawing, which caught fire immediately upon contact.

Claude begins to beat the pages to deter the fire from spreading. In doing so, he realizes that a small flame can become something bigger. Here, in this corner, the warm colors shine brightly, expelling the dimness that tries to suffocate it. A light in the dark, a truth unsealed. 

**TREACHERY**

**Fire is purifying.**

It is the best method for cleansing corruption. Torching away all that is living, leaving nothing but the remains of torched soil so that all that rebirths grows anew. The tip of his arrow holds that devastating power. Ready to cull anything it touches. All he must do is ease the grip on his fingers, so that it may pierce through a pot of oil and expand with zest. 

In a way he’s already been cleansed. The flame that lit his palm ate away at him until the swellings of raw flesh throbbed true. This mark he bears is the mark of a usurper. This is his resurgence. He has been guided by flame and knows now what he must commit on to the world. He shelters his burn behind a bandage roll. To ease the irritation for when his fletching brushes against the tender bit. 

Claude aims from the shadows, from the thick of trees. It took days but he managed to procure barrels of oil, ready to burst at the spark of heat. He gathered them to the opposite ends of the entrance, where everything is more secluded and less commuted. It will buy him time for when he has to get into the cells. If his calculations are right he will encounter no guards; he’s made sure to provide enough of a distraction to keep them occupied. 

He provides two fires when one isn’t enough of a frenzy. One is internalized, currently burning in the abyss. Before reaching the outside, Claude had lit a match and dismissed it over a book, and slowly did its flame grow, consuming the old ink in its entirety. He imagines that half of the content in that room must be up in flames now, its smoke easing out from underneath the doors. Yes he had locked the door, to ensure no one caught whiff of it prematurely, and to create one additional blockade. 

Claude had lost someone very important to him, this is only the start of making it even.

From the outside he waits for a signal, the toll of bells. But even as the twangs of gold sound loudly, he does not act immediately. He waits, waits and waits until the arrowhead becomes ardent. Glowing with heat, making it piercing red hot but nowhere near the point of melting. Claude hears yelling from within the walls and that is the moment he decides to strike. 

Releasing the fire arrow is one of the many treacherous acts he will commit tonight. On the off chance that he dies for treason and his deeds are sentenced in the world beyond, he hopes to one day be reunited with Dimitri there. For him he’ll gladly trade his loyalty from the omnipotence of the skies above.

He lets go, and from there, a sequence of minor explosions play out. Barrels burst one after the next. Balls of flames replace the snowfall, reaching high above onto the roof. Unlike the rest of the building that’s upheld by stones, the roof is created from wood. From his perspective it lacked a grandiose element. He expected the fire to burn bigger and brighter, expecting the wood to fuel it, but it hadn’t, it’d become a meek imitation when compared to his imagination. Claude has failed to take into consideration the dampness of the wood from constant days of snowfall. No matter, he cannot be hung up on inconsequential things when there are bigger plays at hand. So, he gets a move on to what matters most.

As expected, there are no guards in the entryway. Claude kicks the door open with an arrow and bow already equipped. Fingers ready to release a deadly shot at any given second. With the outward commotion he can afford to be a bit rambunctious. He begins his descent down the stairs, practically running to get to the base as fast as he can. Towards the end his breathing is frantic, the pulse of his heart highly elevated both by nerves and physical activity. Nearing the foot of the stairs he slows his pace, venturing out very carefully for lack of awareness in the outlying conditions. Back pressed against the wall he side stepped very carefully, arm held out straight to ready the bow in case of an unaccounted presence. 

A short sense of relief comes to him when he’s certain that no hunters lurk about. More confident in his strategy, he moves forward, one step extorting over the other in expertise. Docile steps don’t generate sound. He places pressure on the heel first and then puts down the rest of his foot. It is how he distributes his weight to dilute the sound. Claude allows the air flow of breathing to guide him, it is heavy and hot and knows that it pertains to the demon. 

He goes up to where Dimitri is caged, his own knee bending to touch the floor to be at height with the lock. Setting his bow and arrow to the side he begins to pick at the lock, his gaze flickering between the metal seal and the being of his affections. Wish he had more time to explain, to apologize, to ask all the questions that boggles his mind: just who really is Dimitri - is he really Dimitri?- and what he truly is. Yet Claude doesn’t have the time and so he must rush. But even as he fiddles with the lock, he cannot look away from him. Eyes too engrossed by the thinner form before him, seated by an adjacent wall. Dimitri is not receptive, doesn’t even lift his head as it droops from between his shoulders. Didn’t mind whether Claude was friend or foe, didn’t even care if Claude was there. 

Every person he must have encountered down here, their touches, they must have left a negative impact. Claude sees bruises, both old and new, and he can’t help but want to be the cloak that protects him. 

It unlocks. Claude allows the lock to fall on to the floor with a thud. The sound of it resonating between these desolate walls.

A brief moment of hesitance as he props himself up, bow gently clasped around his right fingers. He’s slow to open the cell, the creak when opening it announces his impromptu arrival. One step, then two, he’s wary of being too emotive for fear of how it might be interpreted. He can only imagine that Dimitri is harboring ill feelings, and Claude, for one, cannot chastise him for it. 

“I’m aware that you may have mixed feelings about me.” Having Claude near him, hearing his voice, he wonders what kind of response it elicits from the creature huddled in the shadow’s cold. Kept fastened to a wall by chains, with only one knee bent and kept plush against the torso. Still, Dimitri does not look up at him, shows no signs of acknowledging his presence. It hurts, but it is a treatment that he well deserves. 

Claude bends the knee, locates himself in front of Dimitri and makes a show of relinquishing his weapon, casting it aside but still ever so near arm’s reach if he decides to make a grab for it. Claude did not bring a weapon with the intent to use it on Dimitri, but rather, his own kind. Brethren, hunters of his very sort. Still, there is a chance that Dimitri might attack him, and to that scenario, it’s just a matter of deciding who is more heartless between the two. 

The silence prompts Claude to speak, “But I’m here for you now. I’m here to help you.” He’s nervous. He speaks more when he’s nervous, more so when he knows that his words are not getting through. The parting of his lips, the ghost of an endearment, he almost said it, the nickname Dimitri gave him so long ago -my beloved- he took it upon himself to remember his sweet phrases, saved them for himself, to keep the memory, the flame alive. During the period of his passing, those two words made him feel loved, even when the one who said it was no longer present. Now that person is back, and he is unable to say those words, so perhaps Claude should say them since he’s able. 

“My beloved.” Too low of a voice, a faint whisper with everlasting effect. Dimitri looks up, his sunken eyes barely visible from behind the thick mane of gold that overflows from his crown. He seems to have recognized the words. Caught his attention enough to prompt him to look up at Claude, finally, this is where his redemption takes place. 

His heart is bursting, wants to leave his chest and leap towards the chest of another, so that it may give life to Dimitri, the life he once had when he was a living, breathing human. Claude smiles then, to lessen the blow of his words, “I have to remove these now.” His own hands moving to the implanted weapons protruding from the upper back. Dimitri’s body stiffens recollecting the events of past days, even so, he does not move against him or grunt in opposition. He understands the predicament he is under and secedes to what must be done. 

Claude will keep him chained for now. If last time is anything to consider, Dimitri being chained will lead to far more efficient outcomes. Claude gets to his feet and braces his hands around one of the nine weapons and begins to pull. This time around he finds less resistance. It slips out easier, and Claude contributes this to the lack of a cloak where it could have otherwise matted to the material. Though that being said, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t any less painful for Dimitri. He howls in pain, thrashing about as he is seated, testing the resistance of the chains that keep him bound. Claude would like to take this slower, figure out a way where this wouldn’t inflict pain, maybe it would have taken magic, or something as simple as an anesthetic, but they don’t have that luxury when moving through stolen time. 

He manages to take it out and tosses it to the iron bars before moving on to the next one. At the beginning of the pull Dimitri bites his thigh, his teeth penetrating superficially, still, the rush of pain he feels is as vivid as can be. The more Claude takes out the tighter Dimitri’s jaw clenches around him. Teeth imbedding deeper into his flesh, muffling the sounds that may come about. Claude knows that his blood fills Dimitri’s mouth, the taste of iron no doubt making the tongue blush a deep crimson. His leg trembles, threatening to give out under stress, but he refuses to cease until each weapon is out. He’s almost done, just one more to go, he has to act quick before Dimitri’s mouth takes a chunk out of him. Claude bites his lower lip, converging the strain of his body to the inferior fold, where he nips it with teeth. 

Finally, the last of it is gone. A small earned victory but there’s still so much left to do. He releases the weapon in his hand, allows it to clank on the floor, and then, he too collapses near it. Dimitri had grown slack around him, allowing Claude to ease out from his bite. With no moment of respite he begins to work on the chains, pulling out his kit and begins to work at the locks restraining his limbs. As he works he hears Dimitri’s breathing become more shallow, and if he is correct, the sound has lost some of its hoarseness. 

The shackles of his ankles have been worked upon. He’s about to finish unfastening the ones at his wrists, he just has one more to focus on. His wrist moves aggressively, repeating the gestures until the lock releases. From his peripheral he spots Dimitri's head lagging to the side, the length of his hair obscuring all facial features. Once the shackles unlock and fall to the floor, he feels a sense of relief, though, he was given little time to enjoy it. Dimitri takes claim of his forearm, his fingers so visceral and heat inducing that it feels like an incantation on him. Dimitri forces their lips together so desperately and it feels like magic. The curve of his lips, the plumpness, how they pry open against Claude's tongue, everything about it is magic. Supernatural in the way that he turned human before his eyes, the color of his skin returning, pale as it may be, is no longer gray. Other portions have been filled with excess muscles and weight, a corpus no longer as thin and frail. Most importantly, his eyes now, they have color —blue— like the skies, like the heavens he now knows he cannot leap to. Claude sinks into those eyes, falling from heaven, diving into the pungent deep of his lover’s love. Forever sinking, never to reach an end for the love his Dimitri holds for him is endless.

Physically, they are drawn together by jointed foreheads. Their moment is sweet and tender as Claude takes in the beautiful visuals of Dimitri’s eyes. The pad of his thumb caresses a crease, and from beneath he’s able to feel the minor swell from behind the lid as the eye exists within the socket. To be able to see him, to have him at his fingertips, it is overwhelming. All this time spent without contact, it has turned him greedy —greedier— for affection. 

Claude displays his kisses with shamelessness. Laying his claim over Dimitri’s lips over and over. Tears trickling down the sides of his face as he does. Claude is overjoyed to feel Dimitri’s imperfect mouth against his own. Careful, as he’s always been, in enjoying the concave of his lover’s mouth. 

To breathe into one another the ashes of their love, it is rekindled when Claude feels the warmth spread through his being. He loves Dimitri, no matter what form he takes, he’ll love him regardless. And it is because of this obsessive love that Claude cannot stop kissing him, for he knows how empty he’ll feel once he stops.

Though as wonderful as the thought of romance is, he still has to make sure. 

Deepening the kiss, Claude places his hand on Dimitri's chest, and is unable to sense the palpitation of his heart pulsating against his fingers. Their kiss ends, the allotted time they are given not enough to permit them the spoils of their reunion. 

“What exactly are you?” Claude asks, his voice trembling in minor disbelief. 

Dimitri doesn’t give him an answer, at least, not immediately. He breathes, his chest expands, but Claude doubts the importance of oxygen filling his body when he can coexist without a heart. Dimitri takes hold of his hand, twines his fingers around the palm that tries to grab a hold of his heart. He holds Claude gently, as gently as he can, it almost feels sick. 

“I am a prince.” He answers, lacking pride in his title. “And I come from hell.”

Claude swallows as a response, weighing in the severity of the words and what it implies to their relationship. Then Dimitri continues, “I've traversed your world countless times, I've taken countless forms, but by far what I've been most taken by is you. They say demons do not have hearts and that is true, because you have mine’s. It is utterly yours, without doubt, without question.” 

Claude wants to cry, those words of his, carry an effect that overjoyed him to know, and at the same time, hates that he was lied to. It is a conflicting feeling, but the reality of it, they both made mistakes, they were both victim and perpetrator. 

There is sound from above cutting their moment even shorter. The hunters of the church, they are congregating near once more. Footsteps that are taunting, reminding them that their time has always been limited. 

“I have overstayed my welcome.” Dimitri speaks sadly, bringing Claude’s knuckles to his lips and polishing them with his kisses. They are heartfelt, despite having no heart of his own. “You must leave my beloved, before they arrive.” 

Leave? Saying such things now is an insult, has he not proven his love? Not proven how far he’s willing to dwell into the pits of madness for him? He’s come out cursed from the wickedness of knowledge. Deeming himself a betrayer he has nowhere to go. 

“And what about you?”

“It is time that I return home.”

_Home, to hell?_ He wishes to ask, but knows what the answer is, so he doesn't ask. Instead, he becomes angry, and bangs at Dimitri’s chest, unleashing his frustrations until the man below is left huffing. Finally Claude confesses, with nothing else to bet with, he bets with the honesty of his heart. 

“It has been torture, trapped in this world, cut off from all that I love. From you.” His fist unclenches. Fingers uncurl flat over Dimitri’s pectoral, he expects his anger to flow into the other and through the passages of veins, expects his anger to fuel him, surge him back to life, but it doesn’t. Anger can be imposing, and just as powerful as love, but it isn’t enough for what he desperately needs. 

“This is mine.” He speaks aloud, to himself more than Dimitri. He muses about Dimitri’s heart, the lack of feeling at his fingertips is a sedative that causes his anger to fade, just because it is Dimitri.

“Return to me, let us be together.” Are Claude’s final words as Dimitri’s body begins to decay back into his demonic alternative. The prosperous skin, so porous, that once stretched over a human form now shrivel and desaturate. Horns now amidst the parting of hair, growing longer as the skin beneath the malar bone tears and wounds up. Claude feels no fright watching the person he loves transform, those teeth growing longer, sharper, more threatening. 

The bone of Dimitri’s sternum cracks open, shattering in half. Claude does not know what to think, what to feel when he sees a bony hand come out from the other side. Other pairs of hands, all skeletal in appearance, rip open the thin flaps of the abdominis, causing the tear to reach all the way to where the navel would be located. These bony figures reach out to Claude, grasping him by the hand and sleeve to pull him in. He's elbow deep now, and finds no sign of an end, nowhere near reaching fullness. It’s just space, empty space is what encompasses him inside this strange body. He is not afraid, he does not resist, there is nothing for him in this world that he values, no reason for him to stay. With Dimitri he knows he’ll be happy, no matter where it is, even if it’s in literal hell, he knows happiness will find him where it has left many others. 

He kisses his demon before fully submerging into him, feeling the void before the fire struck his heart, casting it aflame. Eternally ignited as he is forever with his beloved in hell.

  
  
  
  



End file.
